0000 hrs. Thika road

Girls, black brown, slim slender, young with fresh flesh zig-zag their way on the platform. Half-dressed, partially undressed, badly dressed, tightly dressed. The oldest is only nineteen, i mean, born in 1995, dreaming of becoming an engineer in future, may be, a pole engineer, if you know what i mean.

They swirl their bodies, swing, spin and twist to reveal, yeah, to reveal what their Mama gave them. This happens to the applause and delight of the middle aged men, men who can sire, men with glasses full of Tusker, White cap and all sorts of the good drink.

The men devour, admire, eat, yes, eat with their eyes, clap, dance and thirst. Thirst for girls who have not yet joined college, girls only dreaming of becoming, of growing up to be this and this. My friend tells me that what the girls are doing is called "catwalk", competing on who emerges the best to be called Miss whatever.

The girls are working hard, in the uncomfortable high heels, back in my village those shoes are called "ndonyee mbande". I don't know how i can get a good translation, but it is something close to 'make a hole that i can plant'.

I am sure later in the day most of the people here, the men and the girls, the drunk middle age women too, will lift their bodies to the second church service, give their tithe and thank God for blessings, and, of course, for good times. The winner of the contest may thank God for granting her mercies to beat such a stiff competition and emerge the winner, to drunkened ululations.

To me, it reminds me what the woman has always been to the man; a social object, a happiness gadget or whatever pretty name you can find. Efforts from good ladies like Magdalene Mumbi Musyoka-Tayiana or even the famous Caroline Mutoko to enlighten the girl child seem to fall to bad ears, deaf ears.

Beauty is a good thing, a very good thing. But what is beauty?